


and we are led (to those who help us most to grow)

by blithelybonny



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Animagus, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Forgiveness, Friendship, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Slow Burn, Work In Progress, making amends
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-12-01 11:50:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11485803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blithelybonny/pseuds/blithelybonny
Summary: ON HIATUS - WILL BE COMPLETED -- Draco wants to make some changes in his life, and he knows that it'll have to start with his attitude. Being able to go back for eighth year is a gift he refuses to squander, and he's going to do something that will be large enough to matter, but small enough not to draw too much attention from certain Chosen Ones; although, the best laid plans, and all that...





	1. Sorted

**Author's Note:**

> The Harry Potter universe belongs to J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic/Warner Brothers. I am not making any profit off this work of fanfiction.
> 
> Title is a lyric from "For Good" (Wicked) by Stephen Schwartz.

Sometimes Draco wondered why the hell he ever got put in Slytherin House, beyond the obvious, of course. He wondered if when he was just an eleven-year-old brat, the Sorting Hat might have taken a minute or two to give his brain a scan (or whatever it did to determine a person’s defining attributes) and realized that Draco probably belonged somewhere entirely else than Slytherin, despite his certainty based on the family legacy. Because Draco was clever, but he wasn’t all that cunning. He was self-preserving, but also quite loyal in his way. Whatever ambition he might have had once had been thoroughly quashed, and his ability to lead seemed only effective through his family name and wealth, neither of which held much, if any sway any longer. Draco was possibly, he allowed himself to consider when he was feeling particularly good about himself, even a little bit brave.

So Hufflepuff, probably—and it was definitely a sign of Draco’s growing maturity that he didn’t even consider that an insult anymore.

“Do you think Hogwarts Sorts too early?” he asked, as he dropped into a crouch to pick up a smooth, flat skipping stone from the water’s edge.

Blaise chose to Summon a stone rather than risk a crease in his trousers, no doubt, as he replied, “Thinking of joining the Board of Governors, are we?”

“No,” Draco said, considering a moment before rising and gracefully skimming the stone across the pond for two skips. “I don’t think current students are eligible for the position.”

Blaise rolled his eyes elegantly. Everything Blaise did was casually elegant, and Draco thought that Blaise made an absolutely perfect Slytherin. He’d been casually elegant himself once, or possibly just casually arrogant, which was almost the same thing. “Aren’t you meeting with Baggins this evening?” Blaise asked. “You do know mallowsweet stays in your system for forty-eight hours.”

“I’m not _high_ , for Merlin’s sake, it was just a question.”

“A ridiculous question.” Blaise skimmed his own stone, and it skipped perfectly six times.

“Cheater,” Draco accused. “And it’s not ridiculous, it’s just a question, but fine, forget I asked.”

“No, now I’m curious. Do _you_ think we Sort too soon?”

Draco huffed, impatient and suddenly irritable. “I asked you first!”

“Fair, that’s fair,” Blaise drawled. “You obviously do think so, or you wouldn’t have asked my opinion.” He then conjured a blanket out of the air and laid it down on the bank so that he could sit down without fear of grass-stains.

Draco all but threw himself down next to Blaise, lying flat on his back and resting his arms behind his head. “You’re kind of insufferable, you know that?” he grumbled, as he made himself comfortable.

“You like me that way,” Blaise answered, as he reached over and slid a hand into Draco’s hair.

Draco hummed, easily soothed, and then shifted so that his head was in Blaise’s lap instead, his eyes falling closed. “So...do you?” he murmured.

Blaise didn’t answer for a long while, instead only gently scratching over Draco’s scalp. The water lapped in the soft breeze, and the peacocks chattered in the distance, all of it only serving to lull Draco further into something like a contemplative doze. He would miss this once term began in a few weeks, passing the idle summer days of his probation in the company of friends and family, rather than people Draco was certain would probably be tripping over one another to get a chance to hex him.

“It comes down to nurturing then, doesn’t it,” Blaise said, pausing in his petting. “No matter what you’re like at eleven-years-old, if you get Sorted into a House that prizes a specific trait or set of traits and those traits are nurtured over the next seven years, you’re bound to be considered a success or a credit to that House.”

Draco frowned. “Yes, that’s sort of the point. Are we picking some random inkling of a trait in their underdeveloped, eleven-year-old personalities and pigeonholing them?”

“ _We_ aren’t doing anything, Draco, the Hat is,” Blaise replied.

“That’s an entirely different, but, now that I’m thinking about it, no less important point,” Draco rejoined. “Who is to say that that bloody Hat’s magic is correct? It’s a...well, it’s a _sentient hat_ for Merlin’s sake, and you’re telling me that _that_ is the best way to determine an eleven-year-old’s lot in life?”

“Are you certain you haven’t been smoking anything?”

“Oh sod off,” Draco pouted, as he rolled onto his side and faced away from his friend.

Blaise clucked his tongue at him and slid his fingers back into Draco’s hair to resume petting him into submission. “No need for all that, I’m only teasing.” Draco tensed his shoulders, but melted easily again as Blaise’s fingers worked their magic. “So when would you Sort then,” Blaise continued, quieter, “if you had the power?”

“No, I think you’re onto something with the ‘how’ rather than the ‘when’ actually,” Draco conceded. “We should get rid of that archaic Hat and just let students choose.”

Blaise snorted. “Right, and then everyone would choose Gryffindor.”

“No, no, see I don’t think so,” Draco said, warming to his theme, even as he sunk further into Blaise’s lap and let himself be comforted. “I think that’s why they’d be afraid to change the system, but I don’t really think that everyone would automatically choose to be a Gryffindor. I mean, Slytherin would probably be abolished just because of the stigma – or well, possibly not as long as pure-bloods still exist and encourage their kids in that direction – but I’m sure there are plenty of children who would choose Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff, and that’s really what I think I’m thinking about anyway. Like...Blaise, if you could have chosen, would you have chosen Slytherin?”

“Of course,” Blaise answered easily. “Wouldn’t you have?”

Draco sighed and reluctantly sat up. “I don’t know that I would have, no.”

Blaise just smirked at him. “Of course you would have. Eleven-year-old Draco Malfoy was going to be a Slytherin no matter if he chose it or if a magical Hat put him there.”

“But the Hat didn’t even give me a chance!” he exclaimed. “The Hat was on my head for half a second before it was shouting out Slytherin and sending me on my way.”

“So now you’re back in favor of the Hat reading your head and choosing for you?”

“I—” Draco cut himself off with a frustrated noise and angrily ripped a clump of grass from beside the blanket that he then whipped away from them towards the water.

“Where is this all coming from, Draco? What’s this all about?”

Draco watched the little blades scatter on the breeze, feeling like his brain was failing him again. He couldn’t properly parse through the contradictory things he was feeling, and he certainly couldn’t find the words to explain them. Or, more likely, Draco was afraid of what admitting it might mean for his friendship with Blaise. He hadn’t many friends left, and he certainly didn’t want to lose any more than he already had.

Blaise put his arm around Draco’s shoulders then, startling him out of his thoughts. Draco turned back to him to try to say something, but Blaise held up his other hand, heading Draco off. “I’m not entirely certain what it is you’re going through right now,” Blaise said evenly, “and I’m probably not the best person to talk you through it even if you could explain it to me.”

“But?”

“But what?”

Draco sighed and leaned his head onto Blaise’s shoulder. “But you’re still my friend no matter what? But it’s going to be all right? But _something_ , Blaise,” he pleaded, “that can’t be the end of what you wanted to say to me because that was horribly pessimistic.”

Blaise chuckled and squeezed Draco’s shoulder. “Sure, both of those buts.”

“I hate you,” Draco replied without malice.

“Not at all accurate.”

They sat silently watching the water for a while then, Blaise’s arm still wrapped around Draco and Draco resting against Blaise’s side. Draco shut his eyes again and tried to let himself drift in the moment. He tried to ignore all the complicated thoughts about House identity and nature vs. nurture and the uncomfortable truth that things were not going to be so carefree and easy when he returned to school in a couple weeks, but the dam had been broken. When he spoke again, he whispered, not wanting to disturb the moment, even though he knew he would.

“I don’t want to go back.” Blaise hummed in the back of his throat in acknowledgment, but said nothing else, so Draco continued, “Actually...I want to go back, but I’m afraid.”

“Sounds more like you,” Blaise offered. It didn’t sound like an insult, but Draco bristled all the same. “What are you afraid of? Specifically?”

There were too many answers to that question, but the easiest and most accurate was: “That I don’t belong there.”

“Well, technically you don’t.” At Draco’s alarmed look, Blaise quickly continued, “And neither do I or Pansy or any of the others who’ll be back this year. We’re supposed to have been done with school, and it’s only out of the kindness of the Board’s hearts that we’re being given a chance to make up for the year we lost.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Draco considered, “but I think you know what I meant.”

“If I were you,” Blaise said, “I wouldn’t worry about having to fit in or belong or anything. Seems pointless. You’ve got me, and that’s all you need.”

Draco found himself oddly touched by the sentiment. He and Blaise hadn’t exactly been the closest pair over the years, as their friendship had been much more about what one could do for the other and vice versa, but in spite of that and in spite of the fact that Draco’s social status had all but plummeted into the muck, Blaise was still there and planned to still be there for him. It was perhaps much more than Draco deserved. Or it was exactly what Draco deserved because no matter how awful a person could be, that person still deserved the chance to try again, to do better, and to have someone at his side while he did it.

“I think I want to…” Draco trailed off, suddenly embarrassed, and ducked his head. “I want to do something good, while I’m there. Something...something that people will remember me for that isn’t...that isn’t bad.”

“Well put,” Blaise said.

“Shut up, you know—” Draco cut himself off with a sigh. He scraped his hand through his hair and then, deciding that Blaise had seen him needier than this on several other occasions, butted his head against Blaise’s upper arm until Blaise rolled his eyes and raised his hand to slide his fingers back into Draco’s hair. “You know what I mean,” he then continued, more contentedly, as Blaise massaged the nape of his neck and the base of his skull. “I want to do something big that isn’t—”

“—being technically responsible for a former Headmaster’s death or letting terrorists into the school or—”

“—yes, yes, all those terrible things,” Draco interrupted.

Blaise offered, “Perhaps you should try for something more neutral than good to warm yourself up a little.”

“Perhaps,” Draco conceded. “Or perhaps something good, but small.”

“Neutral and small. Compared to what came before, neutral’s going to appear good.”

Draco rolled his eyes this time. “You’re such a Slytherin.”

Blaise turned his head and grinned at Draco. “By nature, by nurture, and by choice.”

Draco opened his mouth to drawl a withering response, but then he shook his head, laughing a little, and repeated instead, “I hate you.”

“Still not accurate,” Blaise replied.

“No,” Draco agreed, “it isn’t accurate.”

Blaise didn’t reply again, and Draco let himself fall back into quiet contemplation, as he considered what he might possibly do to make a good name for himself when he returned to Hogwarts. He was sure there would be at least some opportunities for him – assisting with reconstruction, possibly, or tutoring struggling younger students – although whether or not he would be welcomed to them was another question entirely. For now, he was content just to imagine what it might be like, returning without fear to the scene of his many crimes.


	2. A Resolution

It was easier than Draco anticipated to find a small, neutral thing to do once he returned to Hogwarts. It wasn’t _actually_ easy, of course, because it would have been ridiculous to just show up on the first day of term with the expectation that the last two years had been like some sort of bad dream from which everyone had collectively awoken and consequently had been able to shake off like any other nightmare. The first couple weeks were difficult, and it was obvious that no one, not even the First Years who had zero experience with what Hogwarts had once been like, was quite sure how to accept the changes that the school had undergone after the Battle and over the summer.

But the desperate searching and the toiling in seeming vain that Draco had expected didn’t come. The efforts to engage he expected to be rebuffed or ignored were instead gratefully accepted or politely rejected. (Granted, those efforts were largely within his own House or, tentatively, with Hufflepuffs he deemed open-minded and forgiving enough to look beyond his past behavior and the unfortunate Dark Mark that remained on his forearm, faded and grey though it now was.) Draco felt almost encouraged by the fact that he hadn’t been hexed into oblivion or quietly murdered in his sleep, and so when the Headmistress announced that she would be providing an evening seminar for advanced Transfiguration students to complete the Animagus transformation, he decided to damn any consequences and sign up for the course. It was a small, neutral attempt at something like normality, where he could pretend that he was any other student at an ordinary wizarding school.

He sat in silence at a single desk at the back of the small classroom on the evening of the first meeting, fingers absently shredding a piece of parchment as he waited for the rest of the class to arrive. He’d skipped supper purposefully, too nervous to eat, and had come early so that he could choose a seat to his best advantage (with almost everyone else in front of him and with no partner to distract or goad him into lashing out).

The door opened, and Draco made his best effort to appear nonchalant, as his fellow students trickled in. There was an unsurprisingly large delegation of Ravenclaws: Terry Boot, Mandy Brocklehurst, Michael Corner, Stephen Cornfoot, Anthony Goldstein, Morag MacDougal, and Padma Patil, who took up most of the front two rows of double-desks, with the exception of Goldstein, who took a spot in the third row and proceeded to hawkishly watch the door until Susan Bones walked in and then made a spectacle of himself as he tried to both eagerly and coolly indicate that he’d saved her a seat. Bones was followed by Leandra Moon and Zacharias Smith, the former who smirked at and the latter who eye-rolled Goldstein’s display, and the Hufflepuff pair took the other remaining double-desk in the second row.

A few minutes later, with head held high and hips swaggering, Pansy walked through the middle of the classroom, glared pointedly between a double-desk and Draco until he got up and joined her, and then leaned over to whisper in his ear, “As if I would leave you to do this on your own.”

“Thank you,” he replied, more grateful than he thought he would be. Because as much as he thought he’d be capable of doing this on his own (and wasn’t it rather the point, actually? To show that he wasn’t the monster that they thought him?), it would be a whole hell of a lot easier to have Pansy at his side for when the going inevitably got tough.

She smirked back at him. “Even though the thought of doing extra coursework fills me with despair and boredom in equal parts,” she added, teasing. Draco hummed a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat in answer, and she leaned in again to bump their shoulders together.

Draco braced himself, then, when the door opened once more to admit the Gryffindors. He expected a small stream of them like the Ravenclaws, because while Gryffindors, with the begrudging exception of Granger, were probably not interested at all in the academic challenge of the Animagus transformation, they likely couldn’t pass up the opportunity to do something that could lead easily to dangerous adventures.

And there he was, doing it again; in fact, he couldn’t seem to stop stereotyping by House qualities. (He really did wonder if there was hope for him at all, sometimes, to make the change he was so set upon.) As much as he hated to admit it, Granger was obviously clever, but she couldn’t be the only one. And likewise, there were probably quite a few Ravenclaws who just felt like doing something dangerous, rather than caring about the challenge.

Caught up in his thoughts, Draco almost missed the parade of Gryffindors he’d expected, but when he looked back up, he was surprised to find that only Granger, Weasley, and Potter had come through and taken seats ahead of him. Potter turned around and seemed to size Draco up for a moment. “Malfoy,” he greeted, eyes narrowed and suspicious.

Pansy reached surreptitiously beneath the desktop and quickly squeezed Draco’s hand, for which he was grateful, even though he’d never admit it aloud. Draco then simply nodded an acknowledgement, not trusting his voice to betray either his nerves or his annoyance.

Potter took a too-long moment to turn back around, and Draco tried not to strain himself listening to whatever Potter then whispered in Granger’s ear.

He was spared the old familiar need to obsess about Potter slighting him though, when, just as she had when they were Third Years, McGonagall in her tabby cat Animagus form jumped up onto a desk at the front of the room, favored them all with a stare, and then leaped into the air just to transform back into herself and settle with perfect poise on the ground. Despite that he had seen it and other Animagus transformations before, it still gave Draco a little thrill, especially knowing that soon he would be able to do the same thing.

“Good evening, class. It’s wonderful to see so many interested students,” she began, gazing around the room at each of them in turn. “Our number will indeed not be so large by the end of the course.”

A round of murmuring rose up at that provocative statement. Draco sat up a bit straighter, focused, and ahead of him, Granger rose her hand.

McGonagall ignored Granger for the moment. “As this is an elective course of study, there will be no penalty should you choose to leave at any time or should you fail to make the transformation. Because, as you should all recall, the Animagus transformation is an arduous process, and only those exceptionally capable witches and wizards have succeeded in mastering the art.”

“Headmistress, please, with respect,” Granger interrupted, “is there some sort of examination we’ll be taking to determine our compatibility with the material?”

Draco tried his best not to roll his eyes when he saw, rather than the annoyance he would have felt were he in the Professor’s boots, amusement in McGonagall’s eyes at Granger’s swottish question. Gryffindors, always in such a bloody-minded rush.

Ugh, but there, he was doing it again.

“Ms. Granger, I have no doubt as to your ability to master the transformation,” McGonagall replied.

Light chuckles broke out among his classmates, and Draco again barely managed not to make a face. Pansy pinched his thigh beneath the desk, and he turned to her, only to find her smirking pointedly at him. He gave her a look in return that he hoped communicated exactly how little he needed her egging him on in a situation as volatile as this one had the potential to be.

“Likewise, I see the potential to succeed in each one of you,” McGonagall continued, “else I would not have allowed you to sign up for the course in the first place. But make no mistake—” she paused, her steely gaze falling on each of them in turn again, “—you must put in the work. You can have no hope of succeeding if you do not put forth your very best efforts. There is no room for those who hope simply to rest on their laurels.”

Heat began to spread through Draco’s body; he could feel it rising up in him the longer McGonagall went on, the fear that he wouldn’t be able to do it—the worry that he wasn’t good enough or wouldn’t be able to work hard enough—the embarrassment that the rest of his classmates were clearly thinking that he didn’t belong here with them—the shame that they might be correct.

“You’re getting too ahead of yourself, Draco,” Pansy whispered. “I can see it on your face.”

“What?”

Pansy squeezed his thigh again, more comfortingly this time. “You’re full-blushing, which only happens when your brain starts conjuring all manner of worrisome things that don’t have any basis in reality,” she explained, and then she grinned at him, all teeth.

“Miss Parkinson!”

Draco froze, absolutely certain that he was about to be banished from class, but Pansy merely turned calmly back to face the Headmistress and said, “Pardon me, miss. Won’t happen again,” in a tone that was definitely a bit snottier than it should have been.

McGonagall narrowed her eyes at Pansy, but then took a step forward towards the class and began her explanation of how the course would run, what the milestones and expectations were, and how, most importantly, that transfiguration skill wasn’t the only determining factor in a person’s ability to complete the transformation. “Self-control is a key factor, particularly during the early steps of the transformation,” she finished.

Potter let out a sudden bark of laughter, startling Draco out of the near trance he’d fallen into while listening to McGonagall and trying not to panic over whether or not this ‘small, neutral thing’ was actually ‘massive and difficult and not worth his time.’

“Something to add, Mr. Potter?” McGonagall asked, and Merlin, how bloody unfair was it that she actually looked amused still! But of course, Potter always got special treatment. Potter was the sun and the moon and the stars, and he could do absolutely no wrong, and everyone in the world was better for having known Potter, including people who were smarter and kinder and better-looking and—

“Draco, stop!” Pansy hissed in his ear.

He looked down and saw that he was shredding a (thankfully spare) bit of parchment into strips, then up to see that Weasley had turned around and was glaring at him. It would have been easy to level a glare right back or spit out a scathing remark that would make Weasley flush and puff up his chest like the great hulking imbecile he was, but Draco was trying very hard not to get kicked out of class before it even started, and so he just, as calmly as he could, gathered up the strips and shoved them into his bag, then faced forward and studiously avoided looking at anything other than the Headmistress.

Draco must have missed Potter’s answer, but whatever it was clearly tickled McGonagall because she had moved on with a blatant smile trying to fight its way onto her face.

“Behave yourself,” Pansy whispered.

Draco’s mouth dropped open to give her a nasty retort, but then he took a breath in and released it slowly. “I am behaving,” he then murmured back to her, not wanting to draw McGonagall’s attention again. “And you should too.”

Even though he wasn’t looking at her, Draco could practically feel the smirk Pansy gave him in response. “Oh Draco, I _always_ behave myself,” she drawled.

Draco ignored her, even though he really did want to respond when she left him with an opening like that. It was bad enough that Potter and his pals would be there to no doubt torment him and poke at his soft, sensitive parts, but Draco had confidence in himself that he could ignore them despite any historical evidence to the contrary, and he was therefore not going to allow Pansy to do what he’d determined that Potter wouldn’t be able to do either. Draco was going to be steadfast; he was going to put his nose to the grindstone, and he was going to succeed.

Almost as if he’d known that Draco was thinking about him, Potter turned a bit in his seat and tilted his head subtly to observe Draco. The angle was off for Draco to be able to read his expression, but then, what did it matter? Potter was going to be inconsequential to him for the rest of the year.

Smiling to himself at his declaration, Draco sat up a little straighter and began to take notes as McGonagall began the lecture proper.


	3. Perspective

The thing was, Draco really hadn’t intended to eavesdrop on Potter and his sidekicks because he really didn’t give two figs about them anymore, but when the opportunity presented itself a few days after the first Animagus class, he figured it would have been stupid of him to pass it up—especially since he absolutely heard his name mentioned in a very unflattering tone.

He was seated on the floor in the History of Magic section of the library, a dusty old tome open in his lap, reading about the effect of the bubonic plague on wizarding Europe during the Middle Ages for an essay, when the table on the other side of the stack became occupied with his least favorite people.

“There is no convincing me that Malfoy’s not doing it so he can turn himself into a bloody snake and weasel his way around the castle spying on everyone.”

“Ronald, honestly, I am exhausted with this topic of conversation,” Granger said. Then, after a short giggle, she added, “And you’ve mixed your metaphor.”

Weasley grumbled something too low for Draco to hear, but it pulled a laugh from Granger and Potter.

It didn’t surprise Draco at all that they were suspicious of his motivation for taking the course. What surprised him was that they hadn’t been more vocal about it to him. He’d never known a Gryffindor—especially those three—to avoid confrontation, and there had been multiple opportunities since the other day for any of the three of them to start something with Draco, whether in the Great Hall during meals, out on the grounds during a free period, or even in the halls in passing between classes. Frankly, Draco was possibly a little insulted even; was he so beneath them now that they didn’t even bother ribbing him in public?

Of course, he didn’t really care one way or the other. He didn’t have time for Chosen Ones and their heroic hangers-on any more than he had time to waste on Quidditch or music or anything that wasn’t preparing for NEWTs and completing his probation-required community service. Draco reminded himself once again that he was just trying to get through the year without causing a disturbance and getting himself expelled. So despite the nearly overwhelming desire to pop out from behind the stacks and give them a piece of his mind, Draco knew that he should probably just get back to his reading and try his best to ignore them.

“You know what’s going to be the best part?” Weasley said. “The month where we’ve got to keep the mandrake leaf in our mouths for the whole thirty days because then we won’t have to hear that annoying posh git voice of his.”

“Ron!” Granger cried out, obviously exasperated, “You’re being ridiculous! Malfoy hasn’t said two words to us since term began. He might as well not even be here. Why are you—”

“—because it’s normal, isn’t it?” Weasley interrupted her, voice raised enough that Draco sucked in a breath, certain that Madam Pince would be at their side in a moment. When he continued, though, Weasley’s voice was softer, more emotional, and Draco had to strain to hear him. “Forgive me for wanting to make any of this feel normal.”

It was decidedly not what Draco expected to hear, and he must have made a noise because the three of them fell immediately silent. Or, well, it was possible they fell silent because they hadn’t expected Weasley to say something like that either. Draco burned to be able to see them because as much as he loathed them, or rather didn’t care about them at all actually, he had to admit that it was sort of nice in way to know that he wasn’t the only one who felt wrong-footed about being back at Hogwarts again.

And yet why shouldn’t they feel out of place too? Potter, Granger, and Weasley might be heroes in the eyes of the public, but that didn’t necessarily make them welcome everywhere. They should have moved on. Draco knew the stories, knew the rumors about their Orders of Merlin, their offers to immediately join the Aurors or the DMLE—why the hell were they back at Hogwarts? It made absolutely no sense when Draco stopped to think about it. 

“Well,” Granger said quietly after a long moment—and Draco held his breath again, listening hard—“it’s certainly possible that Malfoy’s up to something.”

The laughter that followed her comment buzzed under Draco’s skin, annoyance and anger in equal parts. He found himself on his feet before he could think straight and could remind himself just exactly what he was going to lose if he rose to the bait. He rounded the corner of the stacks and leaned against a shelf. “Looks like a person doesn’t need to transform into a snake to spy on the three of you,” he drawled, internally wincing at the weakness of the comment.

He had surprised them at least though, and the looks on their faces were well worth the seeming soft blow. Weasley’s mouth was dropped open like a gaping fish, and Granger’s was pinched like she’d just sucked on a lemon. Potter, Draco couldn’t get a read on, but he was carefully, suspiciously blank excepting a dark flush that slowly stained his cheeks, and it made a smile pull at Draco’s lips. “Cat got your tongue?” he continued, when they said nothing. “Really, I was so enjoying all the wretched things you were saying about me. Don’t stop on my account.”

“Malfoy, we weren’t—”

“—you absolutely were, Granger.” Draco held up a hand to forestall her, the picture of calm. It felt, Merlin, it felt _incredible_ actually, to have the upper hand, the moral high ground even. The only way it could have felt better, honestly, was if Blaise and Pansy were flanking him, able to stand at his side and enjoy the moment too. “Please, carry on. I’d love to hear more about what I’m allegedly ‘up to’. Might give me some ideas even.”

Weasley seemed to recover himself first. “As if you haven’t got a nefarious plan all set out, Malfoy,” he sneered, rising to his feet.

Draco laughed. “‘Nefarious,’ eh? How on earth did you manage to afford a five-galleon word like that—sell your mother’s house?” He crossed his arms over his chest and basked in the beauty of Weasley’s face going apoplectic.

“Ron,” Granger warned, a hand coming to rest over his clenched fist.

“Oh, my mistake,” Draco continued, practically giddy with it, and turned a suggestive expression on Granger. “I had no idea one could transfer vocabulary skills with—arrrrgh!”

Weasley fisted his hands in Draco’s robes and shoved him roughly up against the stacks, easily brushing off Granger’s protest. “You listen to me, you fucking snake. You listen to me and you listen good because I am only going to say this one bloody time, do you hear me?”

Despite himself, Draco found himself nodding, swallowing hard against the fear that immediately welled up in his throat. He met Weasley’s gaze and only glanced away when movement behind Weasley caught his eye. Potter came up behind, but made no move to pull his best friend away. Potter’s expression remained frustratingly unreadable, and Draco suddenly and wildly thought that it was possible he’d run out of the ‘saves’ that Potter otherwise seemed to give out like candy.

“Look me in the eye, you fucking wankstain,” Weasley spat.

Draco did; he didn’t think he could have done otherwise because he’d always been a coward, hadn’t he? “I’m sorry, Weasley,” he said quickly, deflating as easily as if he’d been a balloon pricked by a needle.

The apology must have caught Weasley off guard because his grip faltered and his face scrunched up in confusion. “Wha—”

“He apologized, Ron,” said Granger quietly. Draco looked over to find that she’d stood up and joined Potter at Weasley’s side. “He’s also entirely not worth a loss of points from Madam Pince for fighting,” she added, trailing a hand up Weasley’s side and gently turning him by the shoulder until he let go and sagged into an embrace with her.

Draco let out his held breath and shakily straightened his robes. “It won’t happen again,” he then said.

Weasley scoffed a laugh, but Granger slid her hands up to cup his cheeks and tug him into a soft-looking kiss that made Draco’s chest ache with something he didn’t want to examine too closely. “Run along, Malfoy,” Weasley then said, though he spoke it practically into Granger’s lips.

Draco took the proffered out, not even stopping to check out the book he’d come for in the first place. Yet, he didn’t get too far before:

“Malfoy!”

Draco wanted badly to keep walking so that he could go to lick his wounds in private, but Potter had always had some kind of a hold over him for better or for worse. He stopped, turned around, and hoped that he had even a modicum of dignity left, as he met Potter’s gaze. “I apologized, Potter,” he said—his voice didn’t shake at all, and Draco felt very proud of that fact—“and I meant what I said. It won’t happen again.”

“I wanted to ask you why.”

“Pardon?” Draco asked. Because honestly, what on earth could Potter be playing at? Draco knew that he’d allowed himself to get caught up in the childish thrill of riling Weasley up, of feeling briefly powerful again—Merlin, he was such a fool. He was such a bloody great fool. Didn’t he want to do better? Wasn’t the whole point of returning to school to try to do better?

Draco wondered, not for the first time, if he wasn’t beyond help.

“Can I ask why?” Potter repeated, taking another step closer.

His eyes couldn’t seem to settle on what to look at, searching all over Draco’s face. If Draco didn’t know better from experience, he could have sworn that Potter was pressing on his mind, trying to pull the answer out from the very depths of him. It was unnerving, to feel so vulnerable without actually having done anything yet. Draco’s mouth dropped open of its own accord, but he managed to stop himself before he could blurt out something Potter could later use against him.

Potter frowned. “Come on, Malfoy. Why?” he repeated again, even softer this time, but it still somehow felt like a knife to Draco’s chest—like Potter was tearing him open all over again, deservedly.

“Because it’s normal,” Draco blurted out faintly. He cleared his throat and tried again, “It’s normal for us all to—to behave this way to each other.”

If he hadn’t been focused on Potter’s face, he might have missed the Snitch-quick flicker of something breaking through Potter’s calm, but Draco did notice it and clung to it like a lifeline. “Normal,” Potter finally said after a long moment of silence, “is highly overrated, Malfoy.” He turned and started back into the library then, almost offhandedly calling back over his shoulder, “Just my two sickles, if you want them.”

Draco watched after him for a much longer time than might have been necessary because he didn’t trust himself to move along on steady legs.


End file.
